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And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,
And thou wert now alive, as I,
Till one, or both of us, did die:
So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band
, * The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear.
Toly-utbion, Song xxiii.
They raised brave Musgrave from the field,
The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song,
Now seems some mountain side to sweep,
After due pause, they bade him tell, Why he, who touched the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand.
The Aged Harper, howsoe'er
Less liked he still, that scornful jeer Misprized the land, he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain.